


Hitman

by Builder



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Appendicitis, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Penelope is super helpful, Sickfic, Spencer Reid Whump, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 21:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12661878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Reid tries to downplay an injury he sustains on a case, and things go from bad to worse.





	Hitman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cm1031SR](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cm1031SR/gifts).



> This is a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @Builder051

“Are you sure you’re ok?” JJ asks. 

 

Spencer pauses as he slides into the backseat of the black SUV, trying not to wince as the change in position agitates his stomach. 

 

“You took a hard hit back there.  I wish you would’ve let the paramedics check you out.”  JJ holds the car door open and watches Spencer shakily fasten his seatbelt.

 

“I’m ok,” he says.  He’s been saying it for hours now.  After the unsub had punched him in the gut, to the police and firefighters surrounding the scene, and a thousand times on the flight back home to Quantico.  “I just need to wait for it to bruise and start healing.”

 

JJ sighs and gives him a sad smile.  “At least come by my desk and get some Aleve.  You…look like you’re having a hard enough time.”

 

“Yeah, ok,” Spencer replies.  He waits for JJ to shut the door and climb into the SUV’s front seat, then leans back and shuts his eyes. The pink inflamed skin on the right side of his abdomen is tender to the touch of anything from his fingers to his shirt, and the dazed nausea that follows such a hard hit still lingers.  He’s sure nothing’s damaged, though.  The pain he feels isn’t the sharpness of a fracture in his rib or hip bone.  Just generalized discomfort.  That’s currently making him feel like he needs to vomit.  But he’s fine.

 

The ride from the airstrip back to the office is short, made to feel shorter by the sleepy darkness outside.  It’s after 11 at night, and while the agents are used to odd hours, it doesn’t make the prospect of sleepy paperwork any more inviting. 

 

“Just do the minimum,” Hotch says when everyone piles out of the elevator and heads to their desks.  “Only the most important paperwork.  Get things written down while they’re fresh in your mind.  Then go home.”  He makes eye contact with each team member to ensure understanding.  “And sleep in tomorrow.  I’ll call if another case drops.”

 

Spencer trudges to his chair and opens a drawer of files.  He selects blank case report forms and a pen, then sighs and bends over the desktop.  The position forces his ribcage to put pressure on his stomach, and exterior pain and interior nausea combine in swirling uneasiness. 

 

He works on the papers for a few minutes.  He’s forcibly reminded of being a child in school, scribbling out answers on worksheets while trying to hide an upset stomach lest he be sent to the nurse’s office.  He’d been eight years old.  And he’d thrown up all over his math workbook.

 

But that’s not the situation now.  Spencer’s an adult.  Case reports are immensely more important than arithmetic problems, and he should be focusing.  So what if he’s hurting a little bit?  He can’t let small things distract him.  It doesn’t even hurt that much.  He’s fine.

 

“Spence?”  JJ’s at his shoulder with a bottle of pills and a Styrofoam cup of metallic-tasting tap water.  “Here.”  She portions out a dose of naproxen sodium and hands it over.  Her soft fingers linger for a moment on Spencer’s clammy palm.  He draws back and tosses the pill down his throat, mostly dry-swallowing it before gulping down the water as a chaser. 

 

“It’s ok if you’re hurting, you know,” JJ murmurs. 

 

“I’m ok.”  Spencer really wishes he has something else to say. 

 

One by one, the agents take their leave.  Garcia promises donuts and lattes in the morning to make up for the late night.  Hotch tells her to stop spending her own money on the team, but the blithe tech analyst just whips out a pom-pom topped pen and scribbles down everyone’s usual Starbucks order. 

 

“Americano with way too many sugars?” she asks when she makes her round to Spencer’s desk. 

 

It is his usual favorite, but right now it sounds revolting.  Spencer tries not to let it show in his voice when he says, “Yeah.  Sure.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Garcia asks immediately, her mouth turning down in an expression of concern. 

 

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Spencer lies again. 

 

“Hey, but, no, no you’re not.”  Garcia puts a hand on Spencer’s shoulder.  “You feeling ok?  I heard you got beat up…”

 

“Yeah, I’m just kind of tired,” Spencer says.

 

“Then get out of here.”  Hotch approaches on Spencer’s other side.  He has his briefcase in hand and his coat over his arm as if he’s on the way out the door himself.  “Really, with a memory like yours, you can work all your forms in the morning.”

 

Normally, Spencer would humbly agree.  It’s usually not a challenge to recall past events with a good degree of exactitude.  Now, though, everything seems fuzzy.  Except for the memory of the gloved fist coming into slow-motion contact with Spencer’s side before he’d had the opportunity to don a bulletproof vest or draw a weapon.

 

“I will,” Spencer says.  “In just a minute.  I really want to get this first page done…”  He looks down at his sloppy scribbles and the two or three blank spaces still remaining on the sheet.

 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Hotch says, giving Spencer a serious nod.  “If I find out you’ve stayed here halfway through the night, we’ll have to talk about you working yourself too hard.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Spencer articulates. 

 

“I’ll get you an extra-special donut,” Garcia promises.  Worry flickers in her eyes for a second, but Spencer pulls a pained smile that seems to placate her enough to take her leave.

 

Finally all the other agents are gone.  Spencer lowers his head to his desk, ignoring the greasy forehead print he’s leaving on the case file.  He should go home.  He wants more than anything to sleep.  But his gut is brewing a queasy feeling that ricochets off the pain in his stomach and shoots up to his skull.  Because a headache to match his stomachache is exactly what he needs right now. 

 

Standing up and walking and sitting and driving and walking and lying down all seem like hassles Spencer’s not equipped to deal with in his current state of misery.  Maybe the painkiller JJ gave him will kick in soon and relieve some of the awful, swirling stress.  He’ll shut his eyes, just for a moment…

 

Spencer starts awake and sits up abruptly.  He’s still in his office chair, and papers and files leave creases in his clammy cheek. Dizziness assaults him as soon as he’s upright.  The lamp on his desk is on, but all other lights in the bullpen are extinguished. 

 

The lighted dial on his watch tells Spencer it’s a bit after 4 in the morning.  He’s slept some, but in an uncomfortable position.  He’s still less than rested.  Spencer scrubs his hands over his face, his fingertips tingling as they drag over stubble on their way up to his hairline.  His whole body feels sweaty and just shy of disgusting.  A feverish ache thrums in his temples, and pain lances up and out from his stomach. 

 

It’s too late to go home.  But it’s also too early to do anything else.  On a normal day, agents generally start filing in around 7.  But after yesterday’s late night and the promise of a less-than-early start, Spencer doubts he’ll see anyone before 8:30.  So really, he does have time to go home, shower, sleep, and come back.  He abandons the idea when the motion to stand up has him swallowing down bile.

 

There’s still a clean shirt in his go-bag, so Spencer digs it out and heads for the bathroom to change.  He’ll take every precaution if it means he can avoid his fellow agents knowing that he’s spent the night here.  Spencer uses his shoulder to open the heavy washroom door, and the motion-detected light snaps on as soon as he’s crossed the threshold. 

 

He squints against the brightness, but Spencer can clearly see that he looks awful.  He slips out of his cardigan and unbuttons his white oxford shirt.  He sheds his undershirt, wads up the fabric, and uses it to dab oiliness and sweat from his face.  Then he turns his attention to the patch of blushed purple spreading over the right side of his abdomen.

 

The skin isn’t broken, but it’s inflamed with the slight puffiness that surrounds healing cuts.  Blood has seeped under the skin to show up as a reddish-violet shadow that’s sure to darken to all colors of black and blue and green as it heals.  Spencer dabs at the injury, and searing heat follows the touch of his fingers.  His skin hurts on the outside, and something definitely hurts on the inside. Spencer’s stomach clenches, and he wonders if he’s going to throw up as he stands there, clutching the counter with one hand and praying he doesn’t fall over.

 

Pain signals often redirect to nausea.  It’s unfortunate, but not uncommon.  But Spencer feels sick too.  Not just to his stomach, but all over.  Tender aches creep into his lower back and up and down to the joints of his arms and legs.  His head’s wanging.  But that might be from dehydration.  Besides the sip of water Spencer took along with the painkillers last night, he doesn’t know when he last drank.  Or ate.  But he feels so far from hunger it’s almost comical.

 

Spencer scoops water from the bathroom faucet and splashes it over his face.  He uses a couple paper towels to dry off and wipe perspiration from under his arms.  Satisfied that he’s as clean as he’s going to get, he shakes the wrinkles out of his fresh shirt and buttons it over his bare chest, cringing as the starched fabric brushes his injury. 

 

He exits the bathroom and drops his dirty clothes in his go-bag.  Then Spencer glances around for something to keep him occupied for the next few hours.  He considers going back to the case file, but too much work done on it will arouse suspicion and potentially alert his co-workers to the fact that he’s been here all night.  Spencer’s eyes alight on the coffeemaker, and though the idea of putting anything in his stomach is still revolting, at least sipping will be something to do.  And perhaps the caffeine will get him feeling back like himself.  Or at least make a dent in the headache.

 

He returns to his desk once he has a steaming foam cup in his trembling hand.  The first sip feels energizing as Spencer swallows it, but it doesn’t taste good.  More sweat breaks out across his moustache, and the heat of his bruise flares as the liquid drips into his stomach.

 

Heaving a deep sigh, Spencer opens his desk drawer and paws around for anything worth passing time with.  He pulls out one of Rossi’s books and stares down at the face of his friend and fellow agent on the dust jacket.  Spencer’s read it before, and he recalls most of the main points, but he opens it anyway and begins to read.  He goes intentionally slowly, hearing Rossi’s voice in each word.  Spencer’s used to reading for content alone, and he has to admit that the hours passed moving his gaze at a snail’s pace across the page is a welcome change.  Or at least it is until his eyes start to lose focus and nausea begins creeping up on him again. 

 

Overly sweet and coffee-flavored spit floods Spencer’s mouth.  He sets the book on the desktop where it flops shut, losing his page. He brings both hands up to cover his nose and lips and sucks in a long breath that does little to soothe the bubbling tumult in his stomach.  Heat flashes over Spencer’s skin, and his hands and feet feel unnaturally cold and damp. 

 

He stumbles up and trips toward the bathroom as his liquid stomach contents start to make a reappearance at the back of his throat.  Spencer sprints past the row of sinks and throws himself head-first into the lonely stall.  He retches as soon as his knees hit the ground.  His abdominals contract, igniting lines of lightning-hot pain across his bruised stomach.  Spencer moans into the echoing toilet bowl and spits out strings of mucous. 

 

The fact that there’s little to purge doesn’t stop Spencer’s stomach from turning itself inside out.  He’s empty and aching after a few decent heaves, but dry retching quickly sets in, bringing more pain with each spine-arching contraction.  He wraps his long fingers around the toilet seat and watches his knuckles go white from the bone-crushing pressure.  He’s still so seasick he can barely move.

 

When the heaves dissolve into hiccups, Spencer shakily pulls himself to his feet, using the toilet paper dispenser for support.  His eyeballs feel like they’re vibrating in their sockets, giving him the overall feeling that the earth is jittering beneath his feet.  He crosses to the counter of sinks and splashes his face again, bringing a handful up to his lips to rinse the disgusting taste of caffeinated bile from his tongue.  

 

After pressing a paper towel to his ashen skin, Spencer exits the bathroom.  His loose plan is to head back for his desk and curl inward; just standing upright stretches the skin of his stomach and invites the roiling throb to escalate. 

 

All ideas are dashed, though, when he opens the door to see the back of a blonde head and pink-sweatered shoulders bobbing around the desks in the bullpen. 

 

Spencer lets go of the bathroom door without realizing what he’s doing, and the resulting slam jars him as much as it does Garcia.

 

“Oh my god!” the tech analyst shrieks, dropping the box of donuts in her arms and sending them bouncing across the floor and under Morgan’s desk.  She whips around and looks for the source of the noise.  Her eyes widen behind her brightly colored glasses when she sees Spencer.  “Oh my god,” she repeats. 

 

Garcia’s high heels clack as she rushes to Spencer’s side, but the sound grows fuzzy on its way up to his ears.  Stars start to blink at the corners of his visual field, and Spencer’s head feels heavy and lopsided.  Without warning, the world tips sickeningly, and the ceiling swaps places with the bullpen’s eastern wall.  He blinks hard to see if the illusion will clear.  But it doesn’t, and the back of his head smack against something hard.

 

“Reid!  Oh, god, sweetheart…”  Warm hands find Spencer’s shoulders, then move up to cup his cheeks.  He forces his eyes open to see Penelope’s blurry face, then doubles instinctively onto his side as a rush of nausea forces itself up and out.

 

“Ok, you’re ok,” Garcia murmurs, patting Spencer on the back as he throws up spit and air.  Then she changes tact, the panic in her voice escalating.  “You’re not ok.  You’re really sick.”  She palms Spencer’s sweaty forehead.  “You’re really, really sick.”

 

Spencer coughs and clutches his stomach, grunting in pain when he presses too hard on the wound dominating his right side. 

 

“Your stomach?” Garcia asks.  She reaches down and lifts the tails of Spencer’s untucked shirt to expose the bare skin underneath. “Oh my…” she trails off when she sees the spread of bruising.  “You’re—Reid, I don’t…I’m gonna call an ambulance, ok?”  She lightly palpates the discolored area on his stomach, and Spencer lets out an involuntary cry when her fingers rebound. 

 

“Oh god, that’s right where your appendix is,” she worries.  “If you got hit and it’s all infected…”  Penelope trails off and yanks her neon-encased cell phone from her pocket.  “I’m calling right now.  You’re gonna be ok.”

 

Spencer hears the phone ringing out a couple times before an operator picks up.  And over the tone, he can hear Garcia whispering, “You’ll be ok.  You have to be ok.”

 

The ambulance ride and everything after is a blur.  The next thing Spencer knows, he’s in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. He’s groggy, and every inch of his body hurts.  He can see a nasal cannula in his peripheral vision, dispensing oxygen into his tired lungs.  A glance to one side shows an IV stand and heart monitor.  In the other direction is a chair.  Garcia’s slumped against the wall, her eyes closed and mouth open in the posture of uncomfortable upright sleep. 

 

“Garcia?” Spencer wheezes.

 

“Huh?”  Penelope snaps up, wiping drool from her lip with the back of her hand.  “I said you’d be ok, right?” she says sleepily.

 

“Yeah.”  Spencer nods.  “Yeah, I think you did.”


End file.
